Partners In Crime
by Forever Unsolved
Summary: It was a standard case... until Sherlock was wrong about who had done it. He and John break into crime scenes, insult Anderson and set fire to morgues, but will Sherlock be able to prove himself right?    I don't own Sherlock  sadly  ...


_Partners In Crime_

Sherlock lay languidly on the battered sofa, holding his precious skull in one hand. He looked up when John ambled in, carrying a large shopping bag that rustled annoyingly loudly, whistling softly to himself.

'Idiot.' Sherlock said, still staring intently at the skull. John rolled his eyes, and set the bag down in the kitchen before sitting down on one of the acid and coffee stained armchairs that furnished their flat. 'No, not _you,_ John, Lestrade. Well, Lestrade and Anderson, really. Well, the entire police force, to be precise.' Having said this, he went back to what looked like conversing with a long-dead individual's cranium.

John looked up from his laptop, and asked his eccentric flatmate, 'What've they done now, then? I seem to remember that you set fire to one of their corpses to see what would happen. You've officially run out of leverage.' Sherlock tossed the skull onto a table next to the sofa, and swivelled himself round to an upright position, with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

'I didn't, actually, John, I merely put a match to its feet. Somehow, by some strange twist of fate, the fire spread to the rest of the body and then eventually to the morgue itself. Those places burn up surprisingly quickly, you know.' He walked briskly into the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator, totally ignoring the Mason jar that contained a pair of what looked suspiciously like human eyeballs. Sherlock picked up one of Mrs Hudson's Tupperware boxes that held food, which one could be sure was _not_ contaminated with some corrosive chemical. Drawing out a fork from the drawer on the top right, he began to pick at the curry in a melancholy manner.

'Come off it, Sherlock,' John said, 'What's wrong?' Sherlock shifted restlessly, and continued to jab his dinner rather violently with a tarnished fork. He looked over at John, who was sitting comfortably with his laptop, and began to speak.

'I'm _bored, _John. Lestrade has offered me several cases, all of which I solved within about half an hour, and all of the rest are idiots trying to get compensation for slipping on an icy patch in front of their neighbours' house.' He absentmindedly slipped a small handgun out from its precarious position under a stack of books. Much to John's annoyance, he aimed carefully at the wall.

'For God's sake, Sherlock, not now- you'll wake the whole-' He was cut off as the detective shot at the wall several times. Eventually, John stopped protesting and merely turned back to the computer, trying to block the memories that unfailingly flooded his mind. After a few moments of unbearable noise, Sherlock stood up swiftly and walked over to the wall, where the faded wallpaper was pockmarked with bullet holes. It took a minute for John, who was watching the whole bizarre scene, to register the fact that these bullet holes made up a perfect ER. Mrs Hudson came up the steps, the heels of her shoes clicking indignantly. Her face had turned rather red, and she held Sherlock's gaze accusatorily.

'What on earth do you think you're doing, firing that damned thing at all hours? I'll get complaints from the other residents!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and began to speak in his typically cynical manner. 'I should hope so, Mrs Hudson. They-' He was cut off before he was able to finish some tirade about the unsuspecting lodgers by the door swinging open. He was greeted by a smirking Anderson, who sauntered in holding a case file. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, still catching the scent of that deodorant. This cretin was one of the very few people who, after being subjected to the great detective's opinion, would actually continue to wear that unbelievably nauseating deodorant yet again- and, of course, let Sally wear it as well. Sherlock voiced his opinion to Anderson, enunciating each syllable crisply to make sure the imbecile could follow it. Sherlock had, in fact, noticed that Sally Donovan herself was actually leaning against the doorframe, whispering to one of her colleagues.

'What a psychopath,' she said cattily, saying the word almost inaudibly into the other sergeant's ear. Sherlock turned around. '_Socio_path, actually. And people like _you_ are why.'

DI Lestrade shot a weary glance towards Sherlock, who merely smirked slightly and turned his attention back to Donovan and Anderson.

"Your utter ignorance never fails to amuse me,' he said sardonically. 'You continue to wear that remarkably noxious deodorant- yes, both of you- and on your shoulder, Anderson, there is a smudge of what looks to me like foundation- the colour of which, I might add, is- let me see… precisely Sergeant Donovan's shade. Now, unless your wife's skin has suddenly deepened, it appears that someone _else_ has been resting her head on your shoulder- someone who looks _rather_ like Sally here. You two _are_ still together, aren't you?' Anderson turned an unattractive shade of violet, and glared at him in a rather hostile manner.

'Did I say something?' Sherlock said innocently.

Lestrade stepped in, preferring to annoy Sherlock greatly by denying him the chance to win yet another argument than having to physically restrain two of his own employees. He snatched the case file from Anderson, smoothing out the creased patch where his fist had clenched it. He tossed it at Sherlock, who caught it in one hand. Turning it around to read the title, Sherlock looked up, puzzled.

'You gave me this weeks ago, Lestrade. It was the sister.' The hassled inspector looked at the floor, then awkwardly up at Sherlock, somehow unable to meet his eye.

'It wasn't the sister. It was the husband.' Sherlock sat down slowly and carefully. Anderson looked over at him pointedly, and said, just slightly too loudly, 'You were wrong.'

'I'm never wrong,' Sherlock said bleakly. Sally decided to take advantage of the moment, and sneered,

'Well, clearly you are this time, freak.' Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and, flicking the file open, skimmed a few pages. He said quickly, 'Right then, I'll just have a look at this and get back to you on it. I'll see you tomorrow, Inspector- the station at one o' clock.' By the time he said this, he had already reached the door and was showing them out. Sherlock slammed the door behind them, and leaned against it. He looked down again at the manila file in his hand, and realized that he hadn't done any better than Anderson had at keeping it smooth. He slowly opened the first page, and read carefully. _Daughter of the deceased_, etc etc, _cleared of all charges, sister has airtight alibi_, and then a note after that, crossing the previous words out and pencilling in notes on her arrest. At the very end, in Lestrade's careful script, were the words, _Husband confesses. Sister of deceased's alibi checks out; cleared of all charges._ Throwing the file down onto the coffee table violently, Sherlock rose swiftly and threw on the long, coal black coat he always wore. 'Come on, John,' he said, 'We're going to catch a killer.'

Sherlock raced through the lamp lit streets, coat flying out behind him. John wasn't far behind, the two of them tearing through sooty alleyways and darting around parked cars. Sherlock's cell phone beeped impatiently at him, displaying a text message sent from Mycroft. Sherlock swore loudly, and began to read it.

_Sherlock,_

_Is there a reason why you're running quite so quickly through London? My people are having rather a hard time keeping up with you. Do try to slow down._

_Mycroft_

'Who was it?' John asked, breathing heavily as they slowed slightly. By way of an answer, Sherlock tossed the phone behind him, letting John almost drop it, and the two of them took off again. The doctor flicked through the read messages. As he did so, another text flashed up onto the screen.

_John,_

_Ask Sherlock to slow down, if you would. This incessant running is becoming monotonous._

_Mycroft Holmes_

John stifled a laugh. Looking over to his left, he saw a lone figure standing in the doorway, face illuminated by the bluish light of a Blackberry. The face looked up at him- it was 'Anthea', and she waved her fingers at him for a moment, before turning her attention back to the phone. John caught up with Sherlock, and handed the phone back over to him. For a moment, it looked almost as though Sherlock was about to either throw the phone into the gutter, or, at the very least, fling it back into John's face- but he merely turned it off rather violently and dropped it into his coat pocket.

About ten minutes later, they reached the crime scene- a nondescript brick house. Under any other circumstances, passers-by would simply walk by it without a second glance, but since the murder it was strung with yellow and black tape. Flowers lay by the pavement next to it, and the curtains were all drawn. Sherlock ducked under the tape nonchalantly, leaving John hissing protests on the other side.

'Look- Sherlock- you can't just ignore that tape. Lestrade will have your head- let alone mine, for letting you-' Eventually, he broke off. Ducking somewhat less gracefully underneath, he followed his companion to the front step. Sherlock knelt by the door's lock, looking at it with a critical eye. John laughed, looking at him rather incredulously. 'Come off it; you're not actually planning to _pick _the lock, are you?' Wordlessly, Sherlock inserted a small device from one of his voluminous pockets- pushing it into the lock; he twisted it about for a few moments. Eventually, he heard that satisfying 'click' and the door swung open widely. John looked at Sherlock, almost unable to believe that they had just broken into a crime scene and were, presumably, about to steal something. Remembering the ASBO he had received after the graffiti incident, John determined not to allow Sherlock to leave him behind, at the mercy of the police. No- if he was going to be arrested again, he was taking Sherlock with him. The two of them looked around the darkened house. Again, the inside would have been quite ordinary, but for the yellow evidence markers piled up in a corner and the white chalk outline of the body, still not yet washed away. John always felt slightly uncomfortable entering crime scenes- perhaps it was the cold; or the sickly, faint scent of white lilies that hung about them. Still, he followed Sherlock through the house, taking care not to leave fingerprints. Not long afterwards, when they had reached the chalk outline, Sherlock smiled slightly, and knelt down beside the lines. He removed a penknife from a coat pocket and scraped at the chalk slightly. It flaked up, revealing a drop of dried blood. This he transferred meticulously onto a slide, which he covered carefully.

'They never check under the chalk outlines.' he whispered to a stricken John.

'You mean you've _done this before?_' the doctor asked incredulously. Without warning, Sherlock sprang up and walked briskly towards the door, clearly evading the question. John followed him yet again, wondering if there was any point whatsoever to his having been there, but at the same time feeling that he wouldn't have missed any of it for the world- the dash through the darkened streets of London, the adrenaline rush from breaking in, and finally swinging open the front door- to be greeted by a team of policemen, and the cold black muzzle of a gun pointing towards Sherlock's chest.

DI Lestrade lowered the firearm slowly, glaring at Sherlock as he did so. Holstering it, he called to the other policemen who crouched, poised to shoot, on the well-kept lawn.

'Stand down. It's Holmes.' John caught sight of Sgt Donovan, who lowered her own gun rather too reluctantly.

'I'd be _happy_ to arrest him, Detective Inspector,' she called out vindictively. Lestrade merely shook his head, wearily descending the front steps. The consulting detective motioned for John to follow him. Once on the pavement, Lestrade wheeled around to face them.

'Listen, Holmes, you can't just go around breaking into crime scenes. The neighbours called us, panicking, saying that the murderer was back. They thought they were going to _die_, Sherlock,' he said angrily.

'Then they're idiots. First of all, your _supposed_ murderer is behind bars. Secondly, if they had actually bothered to _look_ properly, they would have seen that I wasn't wielding a knife or anything quite so sinister as that. I was merely-' here John glanced down rather nervously at Sherlock's coat pocket, in which he knew stolen evidence lay- 'looking around.' Lestrade rolled his eyes, and began, 'Holmes, crime scenes are not for _looking around_ in; they're- never mind, just don't come back.' The detective inspector knew that Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies would render him totally unable to feel useless things like 'respect for the dead', 'respect for the dead's neighbours', and, most importantly, 'respect for a certain police officer who just wanted to sleep for once'.

The next morning, the sun rose and for once was not covered with England's usual heavy grey clouds- there was just the slightest breeze whistling softly through the scrawny trees that lined London's streets. One would expect the residents of 221B Baker Street to be outside like the rest of the population, enjoying the beautiful blue sky, but Sherlock had insisted that John stay inside with him, while he analysed some blood samples. Leaning on the desk, John watched Sherlock meticulously drip various chemicals onto the blood samples the two of them had stolen from the crime scene.

'Remind me why I actually need to sit in here watching you, Sherlock? Why I can't be outside, doing something productive, like shopping for dinner? You do realize that if I don't go out and buy the ingredients, dinner _won't_ just magically appear on the table, don't you?' He looked over at Sherlock, who was still hunched over his microscope, paying no attention whatsoever, while murmuring, 'Right. Excellent. Absolutely fine.' John rolled his eyes, and flicked off the power source. The microscope's light died down, and Sherlock sat up, indignant.

'Right. Now that I actually have your attention for once, is there a reason why I can't just leave? I see no real need for me to be here; you're just sitting there with your microscope fiddling with your slides, and I'm-' John broke off. Sherlock had, during his rant, gotten up silently and turned the microscope on again. 'Never mind, then.' John said, almost to himself. For a few moments, he just stood there, hands in pockets, trying to decide what to do. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up and turned his phone on. Texting madly, he announced to John,

'The blood I found at the crime scene doesn't match either the husband _or_ the victim! Someone else must have been there. I don't know who, or why, or even when, but it's something. Oh, and this is your phone.' Once finished sending the text, Sherlock threw the phone over to a completely nonplussed John.

'Sherlock, your own phone's in your pocket- why the _hell_ did you take mine?' Sherlock gave him one of those withering, isn't-it-obvious glances.

'Yours was sitting out on the table. It was closer.'

Back at the lab, Sherlock glared at Molly. Biting her lip shyly, she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear for the eighth time in as many minutes, and turned back to her work on the slides Sherlock had given her.

'What the hell is wrong with her?" Sherlock mused to John. 'Why doesn't she just put her hair up if it's bothering her so much?' John opened his mouth to give a tactful reply but was cut off by Molly, who had spread out some documents on the grey plastic table.

'So I ran some tests on those blood samples you gave- I wasn't supposed to, by the way, but I though you might- well, anyway, you were right. They don't match our suspected killer at all; but they _do_ match the DNA of this man called James Hargreaves. You'd better ask Lestrade about him though; it's not really my area.' Seeing Sherlock's annoyed expression, she added hurriedly, 'But if you _are_ in a hurry, I suppose I could just do some research for you-' Sherlock had already reached the door before she had finished her sentence. Once he had gone, molly stood on her own in the lab, and said softly,

'I suppose not, then.'

John followed the brilliant detective down the hall, until they found Lestrade in his office, reading case files. Once Sherlock entered the room, he held up a grainy photograph of a tall man in a dark coat, carrying a briefcase. Lestrade sat up immediately.

'Why on earth are you waving a photo of – is that Hargreaves? - at me?' By way of an answer, Sherlock slid the bundle of papers that Molly had given him across the desk. Reading them, Lestrade's eyes grew wider as he spoke. 'James Hargreaves is a known hit man, and we've been looking for him for years. We have his DNA from a crime scene three years ago- the only one where he's actually been witnessed, although he's suspected of many other murders- and these two cases have the…' Lestrade trailed off. 'They have the _exact_ same MO.' Sherlock finished for him. Lestrade stood up, flipped open his cell phone and dialled a number. 'Sgt Donovan, Hargreaves is back. Get a team together and put out an APB across the city. Go down to the crime scene and look for anything else whatsoever that could relate to him. Check the husband's calls, he may have been blackmailed.' He stopped for a moment, and then looked at Sherlock. 'How the hell did _you_ find James Hargreaves' blood at the crime scene?' John knew immediately that he had gone bright red, but Sherlock hadn't moved. Eventually, Sherlock spoke up. 'I think you know, Detective Inspector. At any rate, I imagine you would prefer not to officially find out. The more pressing question is, did the victim's sister make a large payment to anyone recently?' But Sherlock already knew the answer.

A month later, they were on their way back to Baker Street, John feeling glad for his cable knit sweater. Sherlock just seemed to block out the cold- his overcoat was open and he wasn't wearing a scarf. They were reading over the report on the Hargreaves case, now that the trial had finished. They'd attended, of course, and it had taken some clever improvisation on Sherlock's part to explain how he had actually acquired the evidence that solved the case- his explanation had involved asking Molly quite a few questions about the chemical make-up of the blood sample (she made sure, of course, that their explanations matched). At the end of it was a photo of the husband leaving the jail, out of handcuffs.

'See, John?' Sherlock said. ''I'm always right.'


End file.
